Star of Cursrah Page 18

  “Your Majesty, these people, traveling without escort and in disguise, violated our border, refused to give their names when asked, then tried to flee.”

  “So you lashed them and fetched them hither?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Well-disciplined, she didn’t babble excuses.

  “Good work. Well done.” Pallaton handed the woman a small purse from his belt and added, “Please accept this bonus for escorting the samira safely here. Share it with your troop. Dismissed.”

  Boggled and relieved, the captain stamped a smart about-face and marched from the tent. Amenstar stared, speechless, while Samir Pallaton smiled. Sauntering back to his maps, Pallaton shooed his advisors and waved for a servant.

  He asked Star, “Will you take beer and some breakfast? We’ve only soldiers’ rations.”

  “I—No, I will not!” snapped the princess.

  “We will!” chimed Gheqet and Tafir.

  Amenstar’s blazing glare accused them of treason, but she soon gave in to a growling stomach. Servants proffered small beer, oat cakes with salt, dried tirfin, and fresh figs. While the young men stuffed themselves, Star nibbled, still livid.

  “Pallaton, I can’t believe you didn’t punish that woman,” she said. “Even lifting a hand to royalty demands that hand be cut off.”

  Samir Pallaton drained his mug and lobbed it to a waiter. Dusting his hands, he returned to sorting maps.

  “Times change, Your Majesty,” he said. “These days, I need the talents of a good officer more than the approval of a poor princess. Events thunder out of control, like an avalanche down a mountain. Old customs will be swept away unless they’re rooted in common sense.”

  “What events do you speak of?” Star asked, ignoring the cheap jibe.

  Samir turned from his easel, grinning, at ease, in command.

  “Oh, your betrothal to Samir Nagid of Zubat, for one,” he said. “That little stone dropped onto a mountainside set many rocks rolling, and the landscape will soon be altered.”

  “You speak in riddles,” sniped Star. “I’ll not play word games. If you’ll summon a guard, I wish to be escorted to the river.”

  “I speak of politics, Amenstar, a thing you avoid as ‘boring.’ ” Pallaton shook his curly dark head. “You can’t roam the countryside at will, incognito or otherwise. Bide a while as my guest, and learn a little about politics.”

  “As your prisoner”—the princess’s voice dripped acid—“or your audience?”

  “Hear him out,” Tafir interrupted. “Something’s in the wind.”

  As Amenstar protested, Gheqet snapped, “Star, shut up, will you? This is important,” as if berating a sister.

  The princess goggled at the men. For the first time, Star saw herself alone, perhaps in a hostile camp. She needed to cooperate, so wisely sighed, “Very well, Pallaton. Play your game.”

  “No game, Star. This is life in the wilds, where you live by wits and claw.” Pallaton’s casual familiarity stoked the princess’s wrath, but she kept quiet. “Sit,” he said, “and I’ll try to explain.”

  Sinking into folding chairs, Star and her friends attended, the young men still downing food and drink. The prince unrolled a scroll and pinned it to the easel.

  “Let me begin with a map.” Pallaton plied a dagger for a pointer as he said, “Here we see all our peninsula of Calim’s Home, or Calimsham. Her western border is the Dragons’ Wall, her northern border the River Agis. Crammed in this corner, penned by mountains and the river, verging on wilderness, stands Oxonsis, my wild and free homeland. At the far south, verging on the Shining Sea, sprawls Coramshan, biggest and boldest of our seaport cities. Close to Coramshan huddles Zubat, a city of arts and culture, and eastward of everyone, isolated by desert, sits tiny Cursrah, guardian of Great Calim’s wisdom.

  “Except Great Calim is vanished,” the prince added ominously. “Leaving Cursrah alone, small as an anthill in a busy corral, and just as easily crushed, even accidentally.”

  “Crushed?” chirped Amenstar. “Cursrah? Great Calim isn’t vanished! He’s, uh—”

  “Exactly. He’s missing. No one knows Calim’s exact fate.” Samir Pallaton sketched a circle with his dagger and said, “All we know is that Great Calim and Mighty Memnon battled fiercely to control this desert, and no one’s seen either since, though rumors abound.”

  “Ancient history,” sneered Amenstar. “It’s naught to do with us.”

  “Not true. The genies battled a mere fifty-two years ago. Our grandfathers were witnesses,” corrected Pallaton mildly. “The dust of the genies’ battle still settles on our heads. Calim and Memnon exhausted their powers unto death or dissipation. One is a thin wind, the other rooted in rock.”

  “It’s blasphemy to criticize Great Calim,” snapped Star, “may he boil the blood in your veins. Calim is hardly impotent.”

  “Precisely my point,” said Pallaton patiently. “Imagine a leviathan whale washed up on the beach. Even dead, it sends out such a powerful stench that people shudder and fall sick. So it is with the Trapped Terrors. Their powers radiate like twin suns. Calim in the sky and Memnon in the ground continue to hate furiously, and their hatred daily alters our lives.

  “Study the hills and plain.” Pallaton pointed his dagger out the tent door, and everyone instinctively looked. “Grasslands turn into desert year by year, warn the nomads. My shepherds and vintners agree. The foothills of the Dragons’ Wall no longer feed as many sheep. Oxonsis’s crops wither because rain comes less often. Perhaps the burning hatred of the genies drives off rain clouds. Lakes dwindle and dry up, and streams sink underground. Sand creeps into everything.”

  Pallaton stroked his easel and showed grainy fingertips.

  “So,” he continued, “habits change. My farmers and herders seek new and arable land. Inevitably, my citizens intrude on land claimed by Zubat. Years ago, in times of plenty, no one argued about our borders. Now Oxonsis and Zubat scuffle for territory. Skirmishes have led to border raids. Soon will come invasion, and finally war. Note, Samira, that war is an extreme arm of politics. So politics should not be ignored by anyone who wears a crown.

  “Answer this,” Pallaton asked, his dagger tapping the map. “What lies inside the territory disputed by Oxonsis and Zubat?”

  “Cursrah!” bleated both Tafir and Gheqet. Amenstar watched with worried eyes.

  “Exactly. Don’t look so surprised, Samira Amenstar; this news was discussed at your party, but you were too bored to listen. Remember that I accused Samir Nagid of climbing into the pockets of Coramshan? He denied it, but it’s true. Zubatans are not warriors. They study the arts and arrange parties. When they need fighters they hire foreign mercenaries, but mercenaries are expensive, and the fighting—with my loyal Oxonsins—escalates. Needing money and protection, Zubat formed an alliance with wealthy Coramshan, allies, but not equals. Zubat is now a vassal of Coramshan, and Samir Nagid is a prince with no power. You might want to rethink your impending marriage, Amenstar.”

  The prince’s grin was mocking, and Star fumed.

  “Instead of scuffling with Zubat,” Tafir said, having followed the argument, “Oxonsis must war against Coramshan, but Coramshan is ten times the size of Oxonsis.”

  “Twelve times. One of her regiments equals our entire army,” stated the prince flatly. “How long will a war between Oxonsis and Coramshan last?”

  “Not long,” Amenstar said. She was intrigued. Why hadn’t she paid attention to this important news instead of tattletale gossip and frivolous jokes?

  “No, not long,” Samir Pallaton said. His smile was gone as he contemplated his city’s fate. “Oxonsis is isolated and alone and may soon be overwhelmed. So we take quick and desperate measures to stay alive.”

  “What measures?” asked Star.

  “Secret ones, for now.”

  With a flick of the hand, Pallaton changed the subject.

  “Back to Cursrah’s troubles,” he said. “Your city has always been safe and untouchable for many re
asons. For one it’s remote, and desert encroaches on the south. For another Cursrah was crafted by Calim’s own hands, and though the genie is supposedly a helpless prisoner of the sky, no one knows for sure. Lesser genies still guard its water, palace, and the upper air. Even dragons, which infest Calimshan like sand fleas, fly clear of Cursrah.

  “So does Coramsham. Those coldhearted and ignorant bastards are deeply superstitious, so they don’t dare anger Great Calim by attacking Cursrah. Coramshan lusts to annex Cursrah, same as they did Zubat. Actually, any child knows Coramshan wants to conquer all of Calimshan, and woe betide our land when the worshipers of evil Bhaelros are our masters.”

  Pallaton paused, shaking his head over a bleak future.

  “Anyway, as a first test of loyalty, Zubat is ordered to seize Cursrah.”

  “What?” barked the three Cursrahns.

  “It’s true.” Samir Pallaton paced now, back and forth, and said, “All my spies agree. Samira, your parents can verify the plot. It’s one of many schemes the bakkal and samas have fought for years. Coramshan is clever. If Zubat assaults Cursrah, and Great Calim rises up and slays Zubat’s army, Coramshan loses nothing. If Zubat conquers Cursrah, why, Coramshan gains another vassal.”

  “Zubat wouldn’t dare attack Cursrah,” snarled the princess.

  “Not yet,” Pallaton conceded, “but Coramshan demands action. So Zubat has sent in, not an army, but one beardless youth.”

  “You mean,” asked Gheqet, “Samir Nagid?”

  A curt nod, and the prince said, “Now that Samira Amenstar, Cursrah’s eldest princess, is in line to become Queen of Cursrah—”

  “I am not,” Amenstar interrupted. “My two elder brothers stand above me in line for the throne.”

  Samir Pallaton stopped pacing so abruptly he almost fell.

  Facing Star, he asked quietly, “You—haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” Star felt suddenly cold and didn’t want to hear. “My elder brothers serve as diplomats at the sea-coast—”

  “I’m sorry. Your brothers are dead.” The prince tried to be gentle, but the words jarred Star. “Killed by Hatori assassins. One was stabbed and one was poisoned, despite the efforts of their bodyguards. You’re now the bakkal’s eldest child and will inherit the throne should your parents die, and the Hatori plot to kill them daily. When you wed Samir Nagid on the first day of autumn—”

  “It won’t happen!” Star came out of her chair, and for a moment wanted to strike Pallaton, to hit out blindly at anyone. Tears ran down her face for her lost brothers, whom she’d hardly known. She tried to sting the prince but only sounded selfish and petty. “I won’t marry Nagid, nor anyone else, except by my choice, and you—why should I believe your wild concoctions? You’re probably jealous because my parents chose Nagid over you.”

  “Perhaps a bit, dear Amenstar.” Pallaton’s deep brown eyes flared with sudden warmth and passion—so much so that Star was startled—then the light flickered out and he said, “I’ll find some woman who’s not repelled by my hideous visage. My parents’ list of potential brides runs off the table. Save your pity for your home.”

  “My—Cursrah?”

  “I told you Oxonsis must take desperate measures to survive. One reason I sought your hand was so Cursrah and Oxonsis could become allies. Now Cursrah will be Oxonsis’s enemy, and I can’t allow that.”

  “Oh?” In control again, the princess arched an eyebrow and asked, “What can Oxonsis do?”

  Pallaton still fiddled with the dagger and now flipped it in his hand. For a moment, Amenstar feared assassination, but with one swift turn, the prince snapped the dagger at the easel. Its cruel point lodged into the heart of Cursrah.

  “Rather than see Cursrah ceded to Zubat and Coramshan, I’ll destroy her.”

  “Destroy—” Amenstar stared dumbfounded.

  “How?” Tafir and Gheqet shot to their feet.

  The cadet shook a fist at the prince and said, “Never! How can you destroy an entire city?”

  “You’ll see,” Pallaton told him simply, then folded hairy arms across his broad chest. “In three days’ time.”

  Three days passed while Amenstar stewed in a stifling canvas tent, her every move watched by unblinking guards. Unable to talk to anyone, she’d felt her emotions churning, but they had gone nowhere. She was angry at Pallaton for imprisoning her, despairing her city could be saved, self-damning for not attending her tutors, sad at her brothers’ deaths, and so on, round and round until Star was emotionally exhausted—and emotionally vulnerable.

  Star pondered Pallaton and was surprised at how attractive he seemed. As a prince he ruthlessly planned some assault on her homeland, but only because his own homeland was outnumbered and under siege. As a man, Star had to admit he was handsome, charming, intelligent, and considerate. He cared for his troops and his city. He didn’t hate his enemies, even spoke well of Zubat and Samir Nagid. Under different circumstances, Pallaton would work as hard to keep peace as make war. Star knew pride had overruled her sense to the point of folly. A sudden thought bloomed and startled her. Pallaton would make an excellent husband, father, and king.

  “That’s all might-have-been,” Amenstar sighed.

  Then, late one afternoon, Pallaton invited her to go riding. Amenstar was almost grateful—until she recalled he planned Cursrah’s destruction, absurd though it sounded. Deciding she must learn the worst, Amenstar consented. With her ankles tied to stirrups, she and Tafir and Gheqet were escorted from the tent city by Pallaton’s bodyguard of thirty or more.

  Riding northeast on a broad, flat path, the party soon reached the Agis. The silver river rippled from east to west, from the mountains toward the sea. The water ran swiftly, hurrying with whorls and eddies, channeled by stone ridges that prevented it from overflowing. Farmers always cursed “The Dry River” that, rock-bound and never flooding, was useless for irrigation.

  At a rocky shelf, a cedarwood ferry manned by slaves hung on a thick rope braided from hemp. Pallaton’s party dismounted and covered their horses’ eyes with their scarves so they wouldn’t spook. Slaves grunted and chanted as they hauled the ferry across by main strength, with the great rope bowing almost in a half-circle because the current ran so fast.

  On the river’s northern side, the party climbed a steep ridge, iron-shod hooves slipping on shale. Atop the ridge they found that a curving path had been hammered wide and flat by thousands of bare feet marching in both directions. No one ordered the three Cursrahns to be silent, so they talked while Pallaton conferred with his advisors.

  “Finally we’ll see what those slaves are digging,” Gheqet, apprentice to architects, wondered aloud. “I’ve wracked my brain to fathom what they could be digging up out here in the wilderness, and how any earthworks project could threaten Cursrah. I can’t imagine a thing.”

  Breasting a second ridge that doubled back toward the river, Samir Pallaton was met by his chief engineer and his staff, all in military tunics painted with a crossed pickaxe and shovel. Under one man’s arm rested a silver trumpet.

  The prince called, “Are we on schedule, Dewert?”

  The engineer nodded his white head. “Your vizars arrived just after noon, sire,” he answered. “They threw bones and read the auguries, and find the elements auspicious.”

  Pallaton nodded, squinting at the sky as if anticipating rain. Rounding a bend, the Cursrahns finally saw the mysterious digging project. In a shallow valley running due north, perpendicular to the river, swarmed hundreds of brown-and-white bodies like termites.

  Amenstar peered closely, but quickly gave up and asked, “Gheq, what are they doing?”

  The budding architect shook his head, just as confused. Craning in his saddle, Gheqet sketched in the air to make sense of the scene. The earthwork was only a deep trench that lowered the valley’s floor, which was already hemmed by rocky slopes. Hundreds of slaves, Gheqet estimated, dug the ditch with hand tools and lugged the dirt out in baskets. The trench was half a mile long a
nd led to nothing but more valley between hills.

  They rode on, high above the ditch, aiming for a low hill overlooking both the river and the trench. Atop the hill were four small tents. Soldiers guarded the hill’s perimeter.

  “This makes no sense,” Gheqet mused so only his friends heard. “I don’t see why Pallaton bothers digging a ditch. Even if they cut through that stone ridge to tap the river—damned hard digging—they’ll only catch a dribble from the Agis, a tenth of what they’d need to fill this trench at the most. What will they irrigate that’s worth the trouble?”

  “Could they steal water from the Mouth of Cursrah?” Tafir asked. He referred to the opening of the famous aqueduct, the source of all the city’s water. Gheqet craned in the saddle to point west and said, “Those hills block the view, but the aqueduct mouth lies about five miles down river. Pallaton can’t cut off Cursrah’s water supply from here. This little ditch won’t lower the aqueduct an inch. Besides, the river’s protected, same as the aqueduct, by Bitrabi. Try to steal water, and you incur the wrath of our marid.”

  “Magic can combat magic,” muttered Tafir. “They said vizars are coming. Pallaton must have some plan up his sleeve. Maybe he’s got a tougher genie trapped in a bottle.”

  “Impossible,” countered Amenstar. “No one could oppose a sanction placed by Great Calim.”

  Her young companions didn’t argue. Soon the party reached the low hill, which was too steep for horses. Dismounting, they climbed. Amenstar graciously let Pallaton hold her hand up broken rocks like big steps. At the top waited a dozen men dressed in red. Their leader carried a tall staff that looked familiar. These were Oxonosis’s vizars, Star realized, but what did they plan?

  “Look,” murmured Tafir. “The genie staff.”

  “Genie—staff?”

  Star remembered. Held erect by the chief vizar, the staff was taller than a man, twisted like the fabled Staff of Shoon made of unicorn horns, painted and gilded to resemble genie smoke, and crowned by a clever cloud holding a winking sapphire. Pallaton had brought it to Star’s party. She’d thought it only an odd showpiece, but Vrinda, their administrator genie, had peered long and hard at it. Why?